


Happy Endings

by babybluecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Universe, Excessive Drinking, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MOL Bunker, Post-Season/Series 08, Purgatory, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 15:12:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/pseuds/babybluecas
Summary: The Gates of Hell are closed, and so are the Gates of Heaven. It's the ultimate win. But the price was too high for Dean to celebrate. Sam is dead, Cas is locked away. And he's left all alone, with just the promise he made to his brother to keep him going.But when even that is not enough anymore and the haunting loneliness becomes too much to bear, Dean stands before a choice that might help him reconcile with his past mistakes and maybe give him something else to live for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story written as part of Dean Winchester Big Bang Challenge 2019
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to my best bro and ever the patient beta [tco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco). This story would have never existed without you!
> 
> Also big thanks to my awesome artist [Huntress79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress79/pseuds/Huntress79)!  
> Once you're done with reading, please head over to the [art masterpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901281) and leave some praise there!

__

 

 

 

__

_…the first reports of the earthquake came from South Dakota, but it is currently reaching…_

 

~*~

 

“Look, Sammy. You did it. It’s over.”

 

~*~

 

Somehow, Dean gets up off the cold floor. Somehow, he makes it to the car on the slippery ground. Somehow, he unlocks the door with his free hand.

“Okay, I got you,” he coos against his brother’s hair.

He lays Sam’s— Sam down on the back seat, legs bent, rolled blanket under his head. As if he’s just sleeping off a long ride, a tough hunt. As if he’s just sleeping.

Still stooped over the open car door, Dean lets his forehead rest on the cold metal of the Impala’s roof. There’s a faint taste of blood where his teeth closed around his quivering lip.

He shuts his eyes.

The mud beneath his soles begins to devour him.

 

_…breaking news: a show of lights on the night sky accompanied the…from Alaska to South Africa to Japan, the entire world…right now everyone’s asking: what’s going on?…is it time to start the panic and…_

“Shut up,” Dean mutters at the radio and slips in the first cassette tape he can find.

 

Dean turns off the engine and the night goes quiet. Up ahead the sky has long since returned to normal, moon and stars, and Heaven locked behind the curtain of them.

And so’s Cas.

And so’s Sam.

And Dean’s left with his head hidden in his hands, vision blurred, lungs bursting. Heart aiming for a heart attack.

 

~*~

 

_“—keep going—”_

 

~*~

 

“Dean?” Kevin greets him in the doorway. “Where’s—” He bites his tongue, too late.

Dean swallows, says nothing.

There’s a backpack sitting at Kevin’s feet, stuffed, though far from bursting at the seams. Dean drags his eyes off it, says nothing. He’s not sure he can breathe anymore.

Kevin steps forward. “Let me help you.”

 

There are flames.

And they’re burning—

And burning—

And burning—

 

~*~

 

“Party, huh?” the cashier chirps, passing the barcode over the scanner three times before it beeps.

Dean drags a corner of his mouth up. “Yeah, party.”

Glass bottles rattle inside his bag all the way to the Bunker.

 

“ _Just promise me you’ll keep going, Dean. There’s still life out there for you.”_

 

The time stops its course. Day and night cease to exist.

That’s how it must have been before God made light.

 

“Come on, man, you’ve gotta eat.” Kevin pushes the plate into Dean’s hands.

The soup is cold. It’s got a chemical scent of ramen.

Dean stirs it with a spoon, his stomach betrays him with a loud growl. He forces a sip down his throat, hopes for it to settle.

Kevin’s already half-way through the door.

“Why are you even still here?” Dean calls after him, not a speck of accusation missing from his voice. “Weren’t you leaving?”

Kevin shrugs, never even stopping. “Asking myself the same thing.”

 

~*~

 

_“—just promise me—”_

 

~*~

 

A cup of ground coffee, a jug of water, press the button. This is going to take a while. He turns on the radio to drown out the gaggle of the old coffee maker. And the silence.

_…global earthquake—do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?…the biggest number of admissions, people claiming to have been possessed by…seem too synchronized not to be connected…God gave us the sign to repent for the end is n…_

“Dean?” Standing in the doorway, Kevin doesn’t try to hide his surprise. Nor the relief.

“Mornin’, Kev,” Dean greets him, managing a smile. He pulls two cups out of the cabinet and sets them on the countertop. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Kevin informs him like it’s a universally known fact.

“Well, good,” Dean decides, reaching for the pot, ”‘cause we’re out of bacon.”

 

_“We’ve come this far. You have to let me do this, Dean, for me, for everyone—”_

 

~*~

 

_…I’d say we’re safe. By this time, if it was going to repeat, it would have, so yeah, we’re safe, at least…and just like that she returned to her…_

 

“I’m leaving,” Kevin says over the fanfares coming from the TV.

Dean puts the controller down on his lap.

“Hey, just because I beat you again—” he jokes, but something heavy in his stomach doesn’t let him keep the cheer up.

So he presses the button to start another round. Readjusts on the sofa and holds the controller tight. He’s not giving Kevin any head start just because he said—

“I meant—”

“I know.”

His car’s gotten so far off the track he keeps falling behind trying to get back on the road.

“Where to?”

“College. Got to Princeton.”

“Dude, that’s great. We should drink to that.”

“Yeah,” Kevin replies without much enthusiasm about the drinking part.

Dean’ll drink to that, anyway, when they’re done playing.

But they keep playing, for now.

“So—” Kevin starts, unsure, and trails off.

Dean risks taking his eyes off the game just to raise an eyebrow at him. “So?”

Kevin shifts uncomfortably. “What about you? Will you be okay?”

Dean looks back at the screen but his car’s no longer there.

 _GAME OVER. Would you like to start again?_ the screen says, instead.

Dean shrugs, shifts the controller to the other hand to reach for his beer.

“You know me,” he says. “I always bounce back.”

Kevin doesn’t buy it. Dean doesn’t buy it, either.

His car’s on the starting line again.

 

_…almost three months later and the scientists are yet to explain the…_

 

Kevin packs his backpack, again. And leaves.

 

_…there are people returning home, family members, loved ones, friends, it’s been years for some, but now they’re finally coming home…_

 

And Dean remains.

Alone.

 

~*~

 

_…one thing’s for sure—life just goes on..._


	2. Chapter 2

 

The old paper rustles as Dean turns the page. The faded letters swirl and curve into words, sentences, blocks of text that all blur together. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyeballs, tries again, tracing the lines with his fingertip. He manages better this time, though it keeps getting harder to ignore the ache building up in his temples.

But he gets to the end of the page, at last. Flips to the next one. Rinse and repeat. As if there’s a point. None of the books tells him anything new or anything useful.

He slams the book close, drops it to the pile on the left. He needs a break, just a moment. He leans back in his chair, sips the last of his lukewarm beer. As he swallows, the sound thunders in his ears.

He drops the empty bottle, flinches at the rattle of it hitting the floor and rolling away. His fingers shoot to his temples, rubbing against the pounding pain so hard he might give himself bald spots on both sides of his head. He’ll need another beer to drown it out, pills; sleep, maybe. If he’s lucky enough to get some.

It’s been better with that, lately, though he’d thought it never would. Not in the silence.

He’d tried sounds of nature and every color of noise. He’d even made himself a playlist with acoustic rock. It helps a little. On the best nights, he even gets to a good few hours of snooze before he wakes up drenched.

Sometimes, he falls asleep just like that, without trying. Or without wanting to. It’s when his body just can’t go on being awake any longer. What a handy, little failsafe human bodies have.

_“So?”_

He shoots up. Knocks a few books off the useless pile. Heavy breath, a jackhammer, crawling skin; an explosion. One word, a bomb blasting right inside his head. It’s only one of those moments at the very edge of sleep — the stumble, the fall and the whole body jolting up, awake. Only it’s worse because when he awakens, he never stops falling.

The word keeps echoing against the walls of his home.

The bright side’s he’s fully awake. Thanks to the unwarranted adrenaline rush. Or, at least his body is, and that’s the part that matters.

He doesn’t bother gathering the books, the tower of them’s been growing too tall anyway. He picks up a new one, a fresh, ancient tome, from the unread bunch. A promising one, with its black, dusted hardback, fading letters. He slams it on the table, grabs a handful of the yellowed pages and releases them in a cascade, just to get a good grasp of what’s in store. Where are the whole-page illustrations when he needs them?

Stiffness draws a pained moan from his lips as he rolls his shoulders before hunching back over the book. He flips the book open. The silence befalls the Bunker once again.

 

~*~

 

_“Dean, I'm not wrong. I'm going to fix my home,” Cas says and disappears, as Cas does._

_As Cas did._

_“Cas!” Dean calls after him, but it’s futile._

_He’s gone. Gone for good this time. Dean knows that. He’ll close Heaven, he’ll shut the door behind him, and that’ll be that._

_But there’s still Sam he can save. So he rushes inside, into the church where Sam’s still alive, if barely; ashen skin, spine hardly holding him upright._

_He’s made it in time, he still can tell him, everything, about the lie, about the deceit. God’s deceit. He can— He spills out words, so many words he can’t even keep count, he’ll say whatever he must just to stop him from saving the world, from breaking Dean’s world—_

 

_“So?”_

 

Dean draws a sharp breath, too sharp, too dry. A violent cough yanks his body forward until his lungs ache. But that’s nothing, his lungs, they ache all the time, anyway; all of him does.

It’s dark and soft. Did he turn off the lights or did the lights go out? He reaches out to his right, to the nightstand. The yellow glow illuminates the room and nothing seems fine. Quiet purr of a guitar still seeps out of the speaker.

He’s awake, Sam’s dead, Cas is gone.

He’s alone.

There’s no sweet moment of oblivion at the wake, not a second when he can just forget, just fool himself that Sam’s there, in his room, safe. Alive. Dean doesn’t get even that little consolation. Does that make things harder? Or maybe it’s a blessing? No deception, no stupid hope. He’s only got what he’s got. And that’s nothing.

He’s got nothing.

Nothing

 

One day, his nothing might just choke him to death.

 

~*~

 

“This is not what you promised.”

Dean doesn’t startle, doesn’t stare in shock. He doesn’t even look up from the sigil he’s drawing on the ground.

“Fuck the promise,” he says, reproach thick in his voice. “Look what I’ve done because of it.”

He waves his hand at the ash and rubble, still there, on the charred ground. His eyes follow to all that remains of his brother.

And his brother standing in its middle, unironically.

Dean’s shoulders slump as he shakes his head. “Are you for fucking real, right now?”

The apparition ignores his non-question, more occupied with stopping Dean from doing the wrong thing; the only thing he can do.

But there’s nothing he can do to stop Dean. The setting sun shines behind his back but the rays don’t pierce through his form like through stained glass. He’s solid. Solid as only memories can be, not ghosts. A memory, a hallucination; nothing more than that.

“It’s a terrible idea, Dean. You can’t do this.”

“Watch me.”

Bitch face, more nagging to come.

“You can’t bind—”

A book flies through Sam’s face, successfully shutting him up.

Good. Quiet will let Dean focus, double-check the sigil, double-check the Latin he put into the spell. He’s no intention to bind him. It wouldn’t end well, especially after the last time. He’s only gonna ask nicely. But then, that might not gonna end well either.

“What’s he gonna do?” Dean mumbles, picking up the bag of fried pickle chips. “Kill me?”

Sam’s visage is no longer there to judge him as he begins the summoning of Death.

 

~*~

 

Death doesn’t come.

 

The spell, the snacks, they don’t work. Neither does the begging. Chances are, Dean fucked up the delicate art of creating the spell. Chances are, Death, somehow, got locked away, again, behind the Pearly Gates, this time. Dean’s bet is, Death’s just not very keen on appearing on Winchesters’ whim, summoning be damned.

Any case, Death doesn’t come. The night’s getting darker, bottle’s getting emptier. Dean’s getting more helpless, there, by his brother’s ashes.

And Sam’s not there, either. But then again, Sam never was.

 

‘Cause Sam’s in Heaven. Right?

Right?

 

Dean casts his eyes to the sky as if there was anyone in there listening. There’s only the fading arc of the moon and the sea of stars stretched over Lebanon. But they offer no answer, they only are, in silence.

“Right?” he still tries.

Because Sam, he saved the world and sacrificed his life. That’s enough for absolution, that’s more than enough for the caricature of happiness he can have in Heaven.

“Right, Cas?” Dean says into the atmosphere, only as loud as his voice will let him. Or his courage. He licks his dried lip as he’s looking for words. There’s too much he can say, that he can never say now. “You could at least tell me that, man, you know?”

Can Cas even hear him, all the way up, up and locked away? It’s not even that far. Is he listening? Has his angel radio been stripped away from him, has the signal been lost behind the pearly curtain? Will Dean be praying out to no one if he rolls to his knees, puts his hands together; his mouth pressed into his white knuckles.

Does Cas have time to care about him?

Is Cas even—

Is Cas even alive?

_Kill me? They might._

No, no, he must. Dean’d know if he died. The world would— if death of an angel still even means anything.

But Cas was gonna fix things. He did fix things, his home...

So if those sons of bitches—

“Cas, come on. Just a word, a sign. I need to hear from you, know you’re okay. You just puffed off, no goodbye, no nothing. You owe me that, at last, just a sign.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Not a word, not a sign.

Above him, the stars still blink, indifferent.

“Just— just tell me if he’s there and then I will— then I’ll let go. I’ll let him go.”

 

He comes in quietly, as he does. Stands in the middle of the library, like he belongs there.

“Is that you, Cas?” It can’t be. Unless he’s just another hallucination. Or— “It’s a dream.”

“Yes, you’re dreaming. But I’m here.”

He stands still like a fucking marble statue, but he could as well spread his arms, shout _ta-da!_

“Well,” Dean says dryly, “took you long enough.”

He’s bitter, of course he is. And also warm and aching inside. But he can’t show how good it is to see Cas, how much he wants to pull him in, like he’s been missing and is back now and he’ll stay and everything will be okay. But he won’t, so Dean can’t.

“It wasn’t easy to arrange this. I had to call the very few favors I could,” Cas begins to explain himself. “And the power that’s required to let me do this, it’s—”

And Dean wants to yell, to get him to shut up before he says what Dean knows he’s gonna say. And then he lets him say it anyway.

“Well, I will not be able to come to you again.”

Dean takes in a breath and Cas’s words, slowly. When he agreed to help Cas out with his stupid mission, when they spoke in the bar, the nearest thing to a goodbye, he was ready. Or so he thought

“Okay,” he exhales. It’s not, but what other words can he put in that vacuum inside him? Okay is safe, okay means he’s still breathing, if barely, still standing tall, looking Cas in the eye. “You doing alright up there?”

“Things are heated, but with time I know we’ll figure it out.”

That does not answer Dean’s question.

“Wasn’t asking about the family reunion. How are _you_ doing?”

“I’m fine,” Cas replies, avoiding Dean’s gaze. He changes topic masterfully, shifting Dean’s entire attention with just three words, “So is Sam.”

“Is he—?”

“He’s in Heaven,” Cas says. “And he’s happy, Dean. I think you could call this a happy ending.”

Dean snorts. Happy ending his ass. “Man, you need to watch more tv.”

His joke falls flat, followed by silence. Heavy, rather than awkward.

“You promised to let him go.”

“Oh, so you can hear me? When I pray?”

The question has too much of a childlike naivety in it, but Dean can’t hold it back. Quickly he begins to wish he did, though, as Cas’s eyes escape him. He hides his face, he turns away. For a moment, Dean’s afraid he’ll go off and disappear, without farewell.

“Yes,” Cas says, at last, his voice void of emotion. “But— I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

It’s a punch to the stomach that Dean couldn’t foresee.

“Oh.”

“You must understand,” Cas continues, turned back to Dean, but his eyes still fixate on the floor. “Whatever happens, I will not be able to help you, no matter how much I’ll wish I could.”

“Yeah, alright.”

That doesn’t make it any better. Too busy, too tired, too indifferent to his prayers Dean could handle. Not the longing. That he can’t stand to think about.

So he says, “Keep an eye on Sam, will ya?”

Cas nods. “Of course.”

Silence.

“So.”

Cas has got to be the braver one.

“So, goodbye, Dean. I hope you have a good life.”

Dean reaches out, slowly, afraid his hand will go right through him. But it stops on Cas’s shoulder and so Dean grasps it and pulls him in. Locks his arms around him. Holds on to him as if he could never let him go.

“See you later, Cas.”

 

The firmness of Cas still seems to fill his arms when he wakes up. His lips carry a salty aftertaste.

 

~*~

 

Dean comes to Sam’s impromptu graveside for the last time, bearing a bottle of fine whiskey. He doesn’t have many words to offer. He’s said them all already.

“Here’s to you, little brother.”

He pours some of the amber liquor out on the ash of Sam’s bones. He takes a deep swing himself.

 

As promised, Dean lets him go.

One day at a time, he lets them both go.

 

~*~

 

And once he does, there’s nothing left for him to do. So he does what he does best. Keeps up the good fight.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Dean’s bruised knuckles rest on the wheel. The sunglasses make them look nearly black. The sun’s being a bitch, hanging right over the interstate. It never seemed like a good idea to be heading west, even without that. But his body’s not so young anymore. His every muscle and joint, put through week after week of used to the bone motel mattresses yearn for his own bed, just as his soul yearns for a hot, perfect-pressure shower.

His heart, though, it tells him to turn around. There’s always another hunt, another job to keep him busy. Another life to save, that he can save, for a change. _We’ve been doing so well._

He ignores it, reaches for the radio to turn up the sound. It’s been long enough. He’s gotta come back, eventually, to the black hole of the Bunker sans home. Rest and regroup and repeat. Keep the pace sustainable, if he plans to keep at it for a while.

The music crackles and turns into static as his fumbling fingers blindly turn the wrong knob. Dean curses and turns the damn thing the other way, but the static only turns into more static, with a background noise of Creedence. Another millimeter and he loses that too. He plays with it for a moment or two, eyes on the road, not to cause danger. Not to be in danger of—

He turns the radio off. Welcomes the silence in lieu of the cassette tapes, locked unreachable in the glove compartment.

There’s a long way ahead.

 

His phone buzzes just outside of Kansas.

_Vamp in Redsville, OK. If you’re nearby._

Dean presses send on the reply and stuffs his phone. He takes the left turn on the closest intersection.

 

~*~

 

The sun’s halfway past the horizon when Dean rolls into the cracked, holey roads of Redsville. By no means a lively place. Not in the light of day. And thanks to the faces slapped on the covers of the local magazine, not in the dead of night, either.

The center of the town’s a little less of a ghost town, for now. A group of teenagers, always fearless, share a beer in the corner of a parking lot. A woman drags her kid by the hand, makes his short legs work overtime to keep up with her. She pulls him up into her arms, as her eyes fall on the unfamiliar, black car that’s slowing down as it passes her. Dean doesn’t try to flash a comforting smile, make himself smaller than he already is.

He shifts his eyes to the screen of his phone as he takes a spot nearest to the reception. An email from Garth came with an attachment — a sketch portrait of the vamp; hooded eyes above fursuit cheeks. Will sure make his job easier. He’s not too excited to jump into the case so unprepared. Sure he got the vamp’s face, twenty on his hunting grounds, three dead bodies within two weeks — all that Garth gathered from his HQ. He’d just prefer to do the groundwork himself, no bias that might come with a more black and white point of view.

But he’s got what he’s got and he can’t waste time, let another person die while he’s waiting to interview the witness himself. If today’s a bust, he’ll start the right way tomorrow.

Besides, if the vamp falls into his carefully designed trap tonight…well, Dean’s not gonna be left with much doubt.

“Got it, got it,” he mutters into the phone. Duffel bag strapped on his shoulder, he approaches the reception door. The Lone Star Motel’s sign bathes his skin sickly blue. “Yup, just arrived.”

The air inside welcomes him with pleasant warmth and not so pleasant smell of air freshener. He nods at the yawning receptionist as Garth changes the important advice he’s got for him for the third time.

“Thanks, Garth,” Dean cuts him off, pressured by the impatient tapping of the pen. “I think I remember how to kill a vamp.” It hasn’t been that long. “Let you know when I’m done.”

He pockets the phone, sending the woman an apologetic smile.

“Hi, got any doubles?”

His brain doesn’t even register the error until the key clanks on the counter. After all this time. Was it distraction, a familiar voice at the other end of the line, or plain fatigue, Dean doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

“I mean single,” he blurts out.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “So which is it?”

Heat flushes his cheeks. “Single. I’m— It’s just me.” _We’ve been doing so well._ “Sorry.”

Spending the night in the front seat of the car suddenly doesn’t feel like the worst idea. But it wouldn’t fix the hole he punched into his own lungs. So he stays.

In twenty minutes, he’ll be out, anyway.

 

Dimmed lights, smoke-filled air, the voices buzzing over the drawl of a song. The golden whiskey pouring into Dean’s glass. It’s all as familiar as it gets. The night’s nowhere near slow. The recent deaths of patrons don’t seem to have deterred the bar’s regulars. It doesn’t help Dean in holding the bartender’s attention, but he’ll make do. That’s what he’s good at, after all.

He begins with his most charming smile and a brief chit-chat before sliding his phone across the bar, the sketch bright on the screen.

“Any chance you’ve seen this guy around?”

The interest visible on the bartender’s face disappears right away. She barely glances at the sketch before turning her suspicious gaze at Dean.

“What are you, a cop or something?”

Dean shifts in his seat, like the jig is up.

“Three dead bodies. Rumor says they were good patrons of the house.”

The bartender bites her lip, considering him. “They hung around a lot,” she says, at last, this time better studying the portrait. “Well, shit. That the killer?”

“So you’ve seen him?”

“Sure I did,” she says, but it’s not Dean’s face she’s looking at anymore. Her gaze slides above his shoulder and hangs in the air far behind him. “I see him right now.”

 

The vamp’s got an eye on his next victim already: a guy soaking the booze in like it’s donkey milk to his inner Cleopatra. He barely takes his eyes off him, couldn’t be any more transparent if he walked into the mirror maze on Coney Island.

Dean lifts another glass to his lips as he watches the vamp creep closer to the would-be victim. With a wide flash of his white teeth, he slips into the chair beside him, an arm thrown around his shoulders. Look ye what good, good friends they are, he’ll help his silly drunkard pal up and out and home. The home he’s never gonna reach. If only anyone watched the grand show.

Anyone other than Dean, that is. But that the vamp doesn’t know, shouldn’t know. Not yet. Dean’s made sure the shadow covers his watchful eyes. Scaring him off is the opposite of what he’s aiming for, after all.

The fourth glass gets Dean past that warm and fuzzy feeling in his stomach and straight to just the fuzzy in his head. It’s nearly empty when he’s done with it. He can’t help the disgust at himself and at the waste, as he sprinkles the remainder of the whiskey all over his jacket. Oh, the things he does to be attractive.

The wooden legs of Dean’s chair give out an ungodly screech as he drags it on the floor. He grabs his empty glass to take it for a refill, the long way round, chin up and boastful, until he stumbles. Those damn feet, that damn glass shattering on the tiles. He grabs onto the nearest shoulder to avoid the glass’s fate.

“Watch out!” the man growls, shaking Dean off.

Familiar eyes bore into him.

“Sorry, man! I’m so sorry,” Dean grumbles, patting the man’s shirt in an attempt to placate him before leaning to the mess he made. “I’m cleaning this up right now, I’ll just—”

The edge of the glass is sharp, his finger soft as butter that sat on the counter for too long. And it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. Dean shoots up, a yelp of pain escapes him. He fights the urge to shove the hurt finger into his mouth.

Instead, he brings it to the guy’s nose.

“Shit, man, you got any napkins here? Hand me a napkin.”

He sees it in his eyes, their fixation on the red liquid pouring out of Dean, dropping to the ground. He sees it in the quiver of his lips, pressed tight to hide the fangs, to force them to retract. Dean knows the feeling, the hunger burning his insides, the desire that drowns out every sane thought in his mind until he whole becomes it, one instinct, one need; blood, blood, blood. And the sweetest scent he has ever smelled, better than coffee, better than pie, better than he’s ever known after that.

But this vampire’s not as young, nor as stupid as one is on the first night of their life. He fights his urge and he wins. He even hands Dean the napkins, a fistful of them, just to get rid of the temptation. Just for now.

“You gotta be more careful with that,” he offers. He’s got his back to his former favorite would-be chew toy that’s now snoozing with his head on the table, unaware how close he was to dying that night. “Let me buy you another one.”

“Nah, man,” Dean slurs. “I shouldn’t.”

If only all hunts went that easily, played right into his hands.

“Come on, you’re not gonna decline a free glass of the finest whiskey they got.”

Dean plays coy for just a little longer, playful smile, hot cheeks. Makes him wait for it, to add some challenge and authenticity.

Then, he succumbs.

 

So the vampire, Manny, he pays. A glass of liquid gold for Dean, another for himself. Or both for himself, depends on who’s keeping score. They take their time, sipping the booze, making small talk. Too much damn time, if you ask Dean, under his lustful gaze. He’s not even subtle; his tongue wets his lips each time his eyes land on Dean’s neck. Obnoxious, lustful. Should make things easier.

They leave the bar, at last, when Dean’s knees bend underneath him. He’s holding onto Manny’s arm as a hanged man holds onto his noose.

“You live far?” Manny asks as Dean savors the cool air, clean and smokeless.

“Nah. Staying at a motel, some— uh.” Dean pauses. There’s a line of lamp posts leading from the bar. They light the road both ways. One way will get him back to the relative safety of his motel room. Dean looks around, left, right, left, like they teach in school. But he might not need to cross the road to get to the other side, tonight. “That’a’way,” he decides. “I think.”

“Nearest motel I know of is quite a walk along the road.”

“Lemme guess, you know a shortcut.”

“Sure I do.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Manny leads Dean back around the bar and they leave the road and the lights behind. They walk until the pavement turns into a path and the plain turns into trees, and those don’t even make shadows here.

Dean’s got a feeling they’re not going towards the motel at all. With the free hand, he pats his chest, where a hard shape sits beneath his jacket.

“So, uh,” he starts, slowing down the pace. “What is it with drunk folks?”

Manny casts his eyes at Dean, narrowed in confusion. He didn’t catch on yet, between Dean’s pulling down on him and the perfect slur he’s practiced over the years. Or maybe the vamp’s game’s just that good.

“What about them?”

“I’m thinking, they an easier pray and that’s all?”

Now the vamp gets it. His body tenses, his grip on Dean tightens.

But Dean still slips out of it.

“Or do you just…like the taste?” he draws the words out as the machete beats out a rhythm against his palm.

Manny’s grin bares a full set of fangs. “Oh, I should have known you’re one of those savior types.”

Dean waves it off. “No need for big words. Just a job.”

But the vampire doesn’t listen anymore; he plunges.

Dean dodges.

Manny plunges again.

It’s all very corride-esque, where Dean’s blood makes for a perfect red rag, and the vamp — a tireless, raging force.

“I can do this all night,” Dean assures, setting his feet in the steady crooks of the poking roots. He’s damn ready this time. He does not have a whole night.

He lets him come. He doesn’t bounce. With a bend of his knees and the use of momentum, he turns his spine into a pivot and lets the gravity do the rest.

The vampire falls flat like a plank, hands thrown out. His neck’s bared for Dean to slice through, blue eyes pierce into him. No, not blue. He couldn’t tell if they were, in this darkness. The blade whistles in the air then thumps duly in the dump ground — Manny's rolled away just in time.

Never letting him out of the field of his vision, Dean yanks the machete from the ground. He’s only in the mid-swing when a brick wall collides into him. Blown off like a feather, he flies back until his bones rattle against a tree trunk. A pained gasp is more than Dean can afford with his lungs trapped between two immovable objects. And the machete lies where it landed, at his feet.

“Easy,” Manny mutters, sinking his filthy fingers in Dean’s hair.

Next thing Dean knows, his own head comes off. Or it nearly does. The ripping agony in his neck might mean either. It’s the pull at his head, not the teeth. The teeth come after. And Dean can hardly feel any pain when they do.

It’s only broken skin, after all. An open vein. It’s the heat of Manny’s lips, or his breath, or maybe Dean’s own hot blood pooling in the nook of his clavicle before the tongue licks it off.

It’s the pounding and the blackness sneaking into his head.

It’s the helplessness, the lost control, the forfeited choice.

It’s the giving in.

And it’s so easy, so easy. Simple letting go.

At last.

There’s just this and just doing nothing and no promises get broken. He tried. He kept going, he did.

He could never keep on going forever, anyway. Not like this, not for nothing. He wasn’t built for being this alone.

He can’t do this.

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t…

—

But not like this.

Not in Nowhere, Oklahoma, not at this lazy asshole’s hand. Not leaving the case open for Garth to clean up.

This isn’t swinging, this is just going down.

His life’s not gonna end like this.

So he kicks. He punches. He stomps. He pushes with whatever power there’s left in his muscles. Through the fightback, through the hits he earns. He claws his way out of this death’s embrace like he clawed every time before.

And like every time before — he wins.

 

 

With the top of his palm, Manny wipes the blood off his mouth. It’s Dean’s. It’s his own. It doesn’t matter. He’s shaky on his feet, heaving. Though Dean, sans way more blood than he could give, is shakier yet. All of his missing strength’s inside the vamp now.

All he has is his trusty machete, he holds on to with dear life. But dear life’s trying to escape him as well.

“Would be much less painful for you if you just stood still,” the vamp offers, pacing towards him.

He’s gonna get him this time, for good. Get him leaning against the tree trunk, again. Got him panting like an old lady after six flights of stairs. His heart’s beating twice as fast, trying to make up for the loss of blood. He’s not gonna make it long like this.

Still, Dean huffs out a humorless laugh. “Right back atcha, pal. Come on, I promise I’ll make it quick.”

_You still think you can get him. That you’re not gonna flop down to his feet with your next move._

“No thanks. Not that big on dying.”

“Fear of death’s overrated.” Dean’s not that sure he’s talking to him or to himself anymore. “You got the best option, anyway.”

The vampire pauses, confused.

“Best option?”

“Purgatory,” Dean says. “Where you’re going? Ain’t so bad.”

A splash of white hangs in the air where the vamp’s face ought to be. Dean blinks, but his eyes won’t focus. And he only needs them to focus for a few seconds more, just to get the distance, just to get this right. It’s the only chance he’s got.

“Why don’t you go there if you like it so much?”

Dean weavers. He nearly falls. The bark bites into his palm as he holds on.

A figure grows before him, right before him, from thin air. It’s standing still like it’s waiting for Dean to take its head off. From the dark smudges of blood on his shirt, Dean’s eyes wander up to the bared neck, to the head held bravely high. Up to the quiver in the lips and the tired, tired gaze.

No, that’s not—

That’s not right.

It’s a stretch of white fangs that he sees, spread in a smile so wide.

A glint of excitement in the eyes, as they stare at the powerless prey.

It’s hunger. It’s a triumph.

It’s hubris.

“Been there, done that,” Dean croaks. “It’s your turn.”

A hand reaches for him. Dean’s arm still ends in a razorsharp blade. With the last of his strength, Dean swings.

It goes like through butter. The skin, the muscle. The empty spaces between the vertebrae. Clean cut. The head comes right off. It tumbles down like a rock and rolls in the mud.

When the rest of the body falls to the ground, Dean falls down with it.

He’s just gonna stay here for a moment, ‘til he can get back on his feet. For just a little bit. Just a second.

His head’s too heavy. He’ll rest it against the tree. He’ll close his eyes. It’s okay. There’s no rush. Not anymore. He can just sit here. In this calm. In this cool caressing his skin.

“You gonna die here, brother?”

His eyes flutter open. Then blink. It’s a trick. It must be. If not of his sight, then of his asphyxiated mind.

But he’s here. Sitting by his side.

“Benny.” Dean’s lips are barely moving. But he knows he hears him. “Not you too, man.”

He’d bury his face in his hands, but his muscles refuse to listen. Too many ghosts’ve been haunting him lately. And Benny, of all people? He’s not even really—

But he is. Really. Dead. Dean killed him. Lifted his severed head, closed his dead eyes with trembling fingers and covered them with plastic. The fucking grade-A serial killer that he is.

And he can tell himself all he wants that Benny’s only gone. Only tucked away in a different corner of reality, that he can come back, like he was supposed to come back, the light beneath Sam’s skin.

“This is not on me,” Dean says. Or pleads.

But Benny’s not listening

“Handkerchief,” he orders. “It’s always in your pocket.”

Dean drags his hand up to his pocket. Leaves it hanging there.

“You were supposed to come back.”

“Dean!” The thunder of his voice snaps Dean out of his antemortem snooze. “Survive, first. We can talk later.”

Shit. He’s still bleeding. And he’s already too close to passing out. He pinches the hem of the handkerchief and forces his arm to lift it up to his neck. His fingers feel for the wound, reach the ragged edge. He presses the rag there with all the strength he’s got left, hoping the wound will close fast enough.

“Gotta tell you, you’re lucky. I would have gone for the artery.”

Even that might not matter for much longer. He’s still not out of the woods, and he’s not sure he’ll make it there. But he can’t stay here, that he knows. He can’t be found next to a decapitated body, prints all over the murder weapon.

He rolls to his knees. Nearly falls to his face. His hand comes off the ground all wet. It never rained. And it’s not water. He brings it close to his face. It’s black first. And it’s glistening red. And damning. V Rh plus a one-way ticket to Purgatory.

And it’s kinda, sorta life. For a moment, at least. Longer than he’s got.

“Not like this, brother,” Benny says, reaching out to him. “Not like this.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

The skin’s tender beneath his touch, baby-soft and brand new. His finger traces circles along its ragged edge, slow and mindless. It nabs and pulls. Then more pressure comes; the fingertip sinks into his neck as if the gaping hole was still there, bleeding.

It jolts away as if burned. He’s doing it again. His idle fingers always find their way to the newest scar in his collection. And it’s not even that special, not even that big. It just sits there, above the rim of his t-shirt, always angry and pink, shining at him in the mirror, stealing his attention like a pro.

It’s gonna need some getting used to, like all permanent changes do. He’s good at that. And at pushing down things; thoughts and ideas that he doesn’t particularly want to dwell on. Might not be too healthy to dwell on.

Like that he nearly gave up.

And that he feels shitty about it.

And that he might try to give up again.

And that then, he won’t even know if he wants to be dead or if he just wants something to live for. Someone. Even if they’re not there and they’re not even a ghost, but still are and speak and care. Even if getting to them takes a detour through the valley of death or through the valley of blood and all of it still seems better than staying this fucking alone and missing and pretending he can get used to it.

And he’s trying, he is, to get used to it. And then he fails and fails harder.

So maybe he’s not so good at that, after all.

Especially lately. With the scar, different scar, one that scabbed and flaked and nearly healed, as well as it could, that he had to start nabbing and pulling and scraping at until it ripped and opened.

An old, brand new hole he’s nothing to fill with.

Nothing that’s here, and nothing that’s not permanent, at least.

But he’ll get there.

 

He’ll get there.

 

He doesn’t leave the bunker’s garage for days. The Impala’s cold, steel form is the last tangible thing he can hold on to. So he holds on to her, with both his hands and his mind occupied by nothing but brake belts and spark plugs and every other part and their own places in the machinery.

And when there are no more parts to exchange or clean or preserve, he moves on to the trunk. To every single spade and rifle and shuriken star he’s collected in there. And this takes him a while, an extra day or two, when he cleans, oils and sharpens the tools of his trade; his treasures. He sets them back, neatly, in their designated spots, gets them ready for another bout of hunts — months, years, another lifetime of them.

Once he shuts the trunk, he cleans the car inside and outside. He vacuums the tapestry and washes the blankets, even orders the cassette tapes alphabetically. He foams her and pampers her until she’s all waxed and shiny, ready to take on American roads, coast to coast.

And then, there’s nothing else for him to do here. He slips into the driver's seat like he’s done thousands of times before. He turns on her engine one more time, just to hear her purr. Hand on the wheel, he closes his eyes.

Before him, he sees an open road, feels the wind blowing in his hair.

He drives.

When he opens his eyes, there’s still the garage wall before him. He shuts off the engine, for the last time. Drops the keys in the glove compartment. Puts Ruby’s knife there, too — for posterity that’ll hopefully never have any use of it.

He locks the door and looks at the Impala once more before leaving her behind.

“Be good, Baby.”

For her, there are no more hunts, no more roads to travel. On the journey Dean’s embarking on, he can’t bring her.

 

~*~

 

“So what’s it gonna be, Noah?” Dean asks the man standing before him.

There are scrawlings of chalk and bowls of herbs at his feet. This was the tricky part. There was no proper guide, no yellow pages, no demon to torture for the freshest from the social column. Nothing but Dean’s ingenuity and years of putting Latin into his head.

But it worked, and the guy is here. And he’s not happy about it.

“A favor for a Winchester,” he says the name like it’s something rotten. “I don’t have a deathwish.”

“All I need’s a ride.”

“You think I didn’t hear how things ended for A—”

“Do you see the King of Hell anywhere?” Dean cuts him off. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“And that’s supposed to warrant you a free ride from me?”

“Pretty please?” There’s not much Dean can offer. What could possibly interest someone like this, anyway? He’ll have to play with the cards he’s got. “Look, if you do this, you’ll never hear from me, or of me, again.”

“How gracious of you.”

Dean sends him a pleading smile. It’s the only chance he’s got. The only chance that won’t leave him hungry and twisted and damned.

Noah sighs. A long-suffering sigh.

“Alright, alright.” There’s an arm reaching to Dean, palm up, waiting. “Let’s get it over with.”

Dean takes a step back. “No, wait.”

“What?”

“I— I can’t. Not yet.”

A sigh again, impatient this time.

“You think this is a taxi?”

“Tomorrow, okay?”

Noah’s eyes lift up to the sky and he mutters something under his breath. Something like _fucking Winchesters_ probably.

“Noon,” he decides. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” Dean assures. _I’m already months too late._

 

 

_Dear Garth,_

_What I’m sending you, you must guard with your own life. Or just—bury it somewhere no one will ever find it._

Dean’s pen hovers over the next line. There’s so much more he feels he should say. Maybe a where and a why and how long. But every sentence in his head sounds too cheesy and overdramatic.

It’s not that big of a deal.

_You won’t be hearing from me any time soon._

_Keep up the good work._

_Dean._

He slips the letter into a cardboard box. Pulls another box, a much older one, from his pocket. He wraps his fingers tight around it. The Aquarian Star carved into the wood and the heavy key hidden inside that he knows so well, though it’s not even been a year since he found this home. Real home.

He’s got no heart to do the final thing, even though it’s what he came here to do once. What he’d been told to do by a man probably wiser than him. The place is too powerful, too sacred, too loved — by him, to just lock the key inside like it’s car keys, and close the door behind, forever.

Even if it might be forever for him, anyway.

He seals the key together with the letter, writes Garth’s address on top.

So that is done too.

He puts the box on the table, beside the angel blade and his trusty obsidian hatchet. Beside the swiss army knife and his good boots and his comfortable clothes, all laid out and ready. There’s nothing else he will need where he goes. No finite rounds of salt, no silver, no holy water. Things are much simpler down there.

He crosses the key off the checklist.

There’s only one item left at its bottom.

 

_Good night of sleep in my own bed._

And it works like a charm. His memory foam mattress welcomes his body like it knows it’s the last time. It treats him to every little bit of comfort it can offer.

He falls asleep as if he hasn’t slept in weeks: no tossing and turning, no unrelenting thoughts writhing in his head.

Not even nightmares come to ruin his sleep.

He’s at peace.

And when the next morning he wakes up, rested at body and clear at mind — he’s ready.

 

~*~

 

There’s a post box in town, right by Molly’s Diner. Dean throws the parcel into it without a second thought. It’s too late for changing his mind or changing the plan. It’s happening today. Noon.

Still an hour away.

The diner smells like a freshly baked pie from the very entrance. There’s cherry and pecan and rhubarb and apple and a bunch of other types of pie waiting for him under the glass and he’s not sure he’ll ever manage to make that choice.

“Surprise me,” he says to Molly standing behind the counter.

“Alright, don’t look.”

Dean closes his eyes, waits patiently for the plate to land before him.

The red peeking from under the crust gives him some idea of what’s his last pie’s about to be before he even bites it. And when he does, the sweet taste of cherry pours on his tongue.

He’s not even trying to hide his obnoxious moans of delight.

“Your pies are the best,” he says with a full mouth.

Molly smiles. She’s heard that before. “Want me to pack you something extra for later?”

Later. It’s not remorse, but it’s something in his stomach. Small, insignificant, only makes him pause for a moment before he pushes it away.

Pies. Pies he’s gonna miss.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think it works that way, Molls.”

It must have come through, still, a little too sad, a little too melancholic, ‘cause Molly furrows her brow at him, concerned.

“Everything okay, Dean?”

Dean considers the question for a moment. It’s been so long since the last time things were okay.

He smiles.

“Know what, Molly? I’m good. I really, really am.”

 

~*~

 

They’re to meet in an open field. Far enough from the roads that no human can see two men disappearing into thin air. Noah’s already waiting for Dean when he gets there.

“So you’re really gonna go through with this.”

He really is. And it’s not that big of a deal. Because he isn’t giving up. He’s just moving on. On his own terms, he keeps on going. And wasn’t that the plan?

Dean lifts his face to the sun, bathes it in its warm embrace. For the last time. He takes in a deep, deep breath of fresh air.

He’s ready.

“Are you coming, or not? I don’t have all day.”

Dean grabs the reaper’s hand firmly. “Let’s go.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

The grass under his feet and the lone tree nearby, the sky and the distant shape of the water tower, it all blurs and spins. The mix of colors closes in on him and disperses until all that remains are the dark pillars of trees reaching up to the nonexistent sun. There’s only gray above them, eternal twilight, tinting the air like voted most unloved Instagram filter.

It’s the first breath back in Purgatory. And it’s…calm. It’s nothing like the last time, when he got dropped here unannounced: full of confusion and fear and, within seconds, loneliness. This time, he’s got a purpose. This time, it’s the loneliness that he left topside.

In some twisted way, he’s missed this place ever since he left it.

“Well, buddy, you sure this is what you wanted?” the reaper asks, weirdly concerned, watching Dean’s unchanged expression. Maybe hoping Dean had only temporarily lost and by now regained his sanity. “Once I’m out of here, you’re on your own.”

“I’m sure,” Dean says. “I’ll be fine.”

The reaper lingers still, takes a long look around.

“It’s a colosseum area for you. Especially you, Winchester.”

“A cop in a prison block, I know.”

It’s curiosity this time. What could possibly drive a man to choose to become the only truly killable thing in the land of monsters.

“I left something in here,” Dean says.

The reaper narrows his eyes at him.

“Someone,” Dean corrects. Probably not the smartest move, to admit that to Death’s agent, lest he assumes Dean plans to get into the smuggling business.

But Noah only shrugs. “Good luck with finding them he—” he cuts off.

His eyes grow wide, stance shifts in alert.

“What?”

“Something’s wrong.”

Weapon firm in hand, Dean casts a sweeping glance. Everything seems fine, just as he left it. There are no incoming disaster signs, not even the neighborhood’s residents are in sight.

“Wrong how?”

The reaper stumbles backward, his head darts around, frantic. “No!” he gasps. “It can’t— It can’t—”

Cold shiver shoots up Dean’s spine. He’s seen this kind of terror in a reaper before. And there’s only one thing that could cause it.

“Hell!” the reaper spits out. “Hell—is here.”

 

No.

No no no no no.

It’s impossible. Hell can’t be here.

They closed Hell. Forever. That was the whole deal. That’s what Sam died for. It can’t have all been for nothing. But if it is, if the demons found a way to escape Hell—the supposedly inescapable Hell—and slip into Purgatory, what’s to stop them from returning to Earth?

“How?”

But the reaper doesn’t listen.

“I have to notify my sup—”

The word dies in his throat.

It’s black smoke. It came out of nowhere. It chokes him, ripping into his mouth. It tries to possess him.

Dean can’t let them possess him.

He drops his hatchet to the ground, pulls out the angel blade. He bounces forward and slices through the thick blackness. The demon shrinks as electric sparks dance on the blade. Then it resumes its attack on Noah. Like nothing happened, like it hardly felt the heavenly weapon’s touch.

There’s a grip at Dean’s middle. It yanks him back and drags until his legs can’t keep up anymore. He hits the ground. The hold spreads to his arms, his legs, ‘til, like tentacles, the smoke has him pinned down. He struggles against it, but he can’t move an inch, completely overpowered. The demon writhes against his body.

“Get off me!” Dean shouts, his tongue the only thing that can save him now. He still can fight this. “Exorc—”

His mouth becomes full of a foul, sulphuric stench; an aftertaste he’ll never get rid off. It thrusts in like a physical thing, like a fist, tearing the corners of his lips, blocking the air.

But the demon doesn’t get any further than that.

With a roar, nearly audible, it pulls away before another attempt. Dean uses the moment to yank his hand free. He feels the ground beside him, blindly, in search of the blade he’s dropped. There’s something hard, lying right at the end of his reach. It must be it. If only he managed to move a little bit to the side.

He outstretches his hand as far as he can. He’s almost got it. There’s the cold of the metal edge beneath his fingertips. He only needs to pinch it and—

The blade flies away. It cuts through the air until it hits where it aimed. There’s a scream and the air becomes brighter. And it dies right away.

A dull thump follows.

Dean closes his eyes.

The reaper is dead.

There are demons roaming free in Purgatory.

He’s trapped and defeated and he’s no way to fight.

He’s screwed. He’s fucking screwed.

And he really wishes the demon would get the fuck out of his mouth.

 

~*~

 

Like a pendulum, a weapon swings an inch above Dean’s chest. It knocks the demon right off him; its broken, mewling form disappears into the woods. Smothered by the thing, Dean never heard the steps coming.

Now, there are boots standing right beside him, a hand pops into his field of vision, palm open, no weapon or claws aiming for his throat.

“How many times do I have to save you, Winchester?”

Dean could never mistake that voice for anything. He’s heard it in his ear during long travels across Purgatory and in his topside nightmares. He grasps the hand, lets it pull him up to his feet.

He breathes.

There he is. Same blue eyes, same face. Even the same damn hat Dean buried him with.

“Benny.” Dean can’t hide the relief in his voice, and the warmth in his heart, and the wide smile that blooms on his face.

He wants to hug him. Wants to wrap his arms around Benny’s solid form—something more than a memory, more than a ghost—just to know if he’s real. To know if he’d feel the same way as the last time Dean held him; minus the heart on the edge of breaking, minus the goodbye turned farewell turned a bittersweet see you later.

To know he never had to be so alone.

But Benny’s turned his back on him already, eyes fixed on where the rest of the demons swarm. Finding the other host useless, they slowly advance towards the free real estate of Dean’s meatsuit.

Benny points his weapon at them, a wooden club with a reddish stone attached at its end. Haematite, it’s gotta be. Iron. Smart guy.

“Back off, this one’s mine!” he growls with authority and protectiveness that makes Dean’s cheeks flush.

One warning swing is enough to get the demons to scoot.

Where the black smoke used to be now only lies a body with Dean’s blade sticking out of his chest. Noah. Dean walks over to him, heart growing heavy. This is what the reaper feared. This is what he knew dealing with a Winchester would bring on him.

An eternal being, killed and discarded like trash in God’s landfill. And one of the good guys, too.

Dean kneels beside him, closes his eyes, and his jaw nearly ripped off its hinges in the demon’s heinous act. It’s the least he can do. He’s no time or means to grant him a burial.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

But that won’t do much now, will it?

He puts one hand on Noah’s chest, wraps the other around the blade’s handle. He yanks it out as fast as he can.

“Ain’t this one yours too?” Benny asks, handing him the hatchet.

A demon weapon and a monster weapon. Things have just got a whole lot more complicated.

 

There is a cave over the hill, Benny’s favorite hiding place. Far enough from the demon drama, or so he says. And the peak makes for a perfect observation point. From there, they can see the plains and the forest stretching far, on this side of the river.

Near the feet of the hill, dark shape of Noah still lies where they left him.

“Saw you two appear from here,” Benny says when Dean stops for breath. “We don’t get visitors often so I went to check.”

“Glad you did.” Dean tears his eyes off two distant shadows sneaking along the bank, far enough not to pay them any mind. “Benny, about what I did—”

“Water under the bridge,” Benny cuts him off. “I’m just happy to see you, Dean.”

He smiles at Dean, like a long lost friend would. But there’s something in his eyes, where the smile doesn’t reach. A kind of coldness that clenches Dean’s throat in its fist. But he can’t blame him for that, after every time Dean failed him and still asked for more.

“Yeah,” Dean says, trying to swallow down the feeling. He should have never expected anything else. But it’s okay, he’s got time. As long as it’s fixable, he’ll fix it. “I’m happy to see you too.”

And that’s that. They move on.

The slope’s gentler on this side, making the walk that much more comfortable. The lack of silence between them helps too.

“So, if you didn’t know about this whole mess, you what—came on vacation?”

“More like a retirement.”

Benny raises his eyebrows at him. Dean can practically hear the _what the hell is wrong with you?_ in his gaze.

“Hell of a place you chose,” he says, instead. “Literally.”

Dean smiles softly, though he doesn’t feel like smiling. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. There wasn’t supposed to be another grand scale situation waiting for him to clean up. He was done with those. He was done.

But then, that’s just his life, isn’t it?

“Looks like it’s exactly where I gotta be.”

“So you’re gonna try to fix this?”

“Dude, have you met me?” Dean should really be offended by the insinuation that he wouldn’t do his damnedest to fix it. “Besides, no one else knows about it, no cavalry’s coming.”

“I was thinking we could get topside and let your buddy’s buddies know, let them do the cleaning.”

“You mean the angels?” Dean snorts. As if those guys were ever of any help. There’s a reason they agreed to lock them up. “Wait—” he pauses his trek, as his brain processes the more important part of what Benny said to him. “You wanna get out of here?”

“I miss the sunshine on my face.”

“You’re a vampire.”

Benny only shrugs.

Dean stares at his face, looking for signs that he’s only joking, playing with him. He waits for a _gotcha!_ but it doesn’t come.

“I thought you wouldn’t want that. After you—” _didn’t come back_ —”chose this.”

“Well, I didn’t choose _this_.” Benny waves his club around. “A few months and it starts to wear on you. So, what’s it gonna be?”

Benny wants to get out. They can get out. Together. Breathe the real air, again. Dean’ll dig Benny’s body out and pour his soul back in, as was once the plan. And then maybe Benny’ll stay, if he’ll want to stay. And they can do whatever the hell they’ll want.

Dean will never let Benny down, this time.

And this mess? The reapers will sure want to know about it.

“Sure.” Dean nods, a smile playing with the corners of his lips. “Sounds like a plan.”

They steer off the path and into deeper forest. As the walk, they plot their path through the demon-infested land to the portal. But Dean’s head’s not really in it. It’s got other plans to dream up. How they’ll make their way to Lebanon, how they’ll drive around in the Impala, windows down, Benny on the passenger seat. Maybe they’ll hunt together.

Maybe Benny’ll come home with him and stay.

“I got a home now, Benny,” Dean says softly. “It’s awesome.”

“We got company.”

They’re still way ahead, three figures among the trees. And they noticed them too. They’ve their weapons ready, claws pulled out, bared fangs, shining even as their heads are veiled in shadows.

“All this demon talk, I almost forgot about monsters,” Dean mutters, readjusting his grip on his hatchet. Right behind him, Benny switches his weapons. “Any chance they’re buddies of yours?”

“No such luck. The rest of the pack might be hiding.”

There’s no use in waiting ‘til the monsters get here.

“Watch my back.”

“Right behind you.”

Dean moves in first, listening in for the smallest movement in the surroundings. There’s nothing but the sound of Benny’s footsteps behind him.

He doesn’t let the monsters in his path out of his sight. They approach in violent bursts, with manic grins on their mouths. With each moment they get closer to the light, to him.

Few steps more and he’ll have them in the range of his swing.

“Watch out!”

A thud resounds to his left. An enemy in attack. Dean serves a blow but hits nothing.

He turns back.

His head surges forward. Pain blooms at the back of his skull. He falls as the darkness steals his vision. Shadowed eyes in sunken faces are the last thing he sees.

 

~*~

 

The weapon in his fist, Dean springs off the ground, ready to attack.

He doesn’t make it to his feet. The ground slips out from underneath him and he collapses. His head spins and pounds as it lands on a soft pile.

His fingers are wrapped around the air.

“Easy, Dean. You’re safe,” purrs a soothing timbre.

It’s all he needs to let himself relax, just enough to not hurt himself further trying to get up.

He starts with opening his eyes, this time, doing his best to ignore the whirling. It’s dark and it takes him a moment to realize it’s a rock ceiling, not the night sky, above him.

“What happened?” he blurts, head slowly turning in search for Benny.

There he is, sat against the opposite wall of what must be his cave. The sparse light seeping in from the entrance is barely enough to distinguish his face.

“A werewolf jumped you, you blacked out,” he says, his fingers fiddling with his weapon. “I killed them and brought you here.”

Testing the waters, Dean slowly props himself up on his elbow.

“You beat them all?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you got soft topside.”

His tone’s joking, but Dean knows he’s right. He came here for combat, but he got his ass whooped twice on the first day. If it wasn’t for Benny, he could have already been dead. So much for his _I’ll be fine_.

“Thanks for saving my hide again.”

They don’t talk much after that. Benny gets to humming some ancient melody, while Dean takes his time waiting for the spinning to subside and for the ache to become bearable enough to let him focus.

The cave’s cozy for the two of them, but its ceiling rises just high enough for Dean to comfortably stand inside. It goes further inside the hill, but the widened spot Benny turned into his alcove is deep enough to not be seen from the outside while still getting some light. During the day at least.

Between Dean’s injury and approaching evening, they’ll have to stay here until morning before they can begin their trek along the ridge. Dean’s eyes drift to the entrance, its rock floor with nothing ornating it but a layer of dirt and moss crawling on the edges. No line of salt or a threshold of haematite, no devil’s trap to keep the intruders away.

“Hand me the blade,” Dean says, once he’s sure he’s good to keep upright.

Without a paint at hand, he’s gonna have to improvise.

“Going somewhere?”

“We need to demon-proof here.”

Benny lifts eyes to Dean like it never occurred to him. And maybe it hasn’t, it’s not like he needed it before a living target moved in with him.

“Aren’t you demon-proof?”

Dean shrugs. “Didn’t stop them last time, did it?”

“Right,” says Benny, reaching for the angel blade lying with the rest of their weapons. “How did you do it anyway?”

“How’d I not get possessed?” Dean grabs the neck of his shirt and pulls it down, revealing the black symbol inked on his chest. “This thing.”

The dark tattoo’s hardly visible in the dimness of the cave. With narrowed eyes, Benny gets up to have a better look at it. Dean steels when Benny’s free palm lands on his. He moves close, closer, ‘til his warm breath brushes Dean’s skin.

“That’s all?” he murmurs, not very impressed. “A little ink and no demon can ride your hide out of here?”

“Pretty much.”

“Hm. But if someone was to—” the tip of Benny’s finger lands on his collarbone, it painfully slowly drags down, sliding across the tattoo, imitating the silver blade he’s holding in his other hand—”slice it, break the skin. Then you’re done for?”

“Yeah.” Dean swallows hard. His mouth’s suddenly gone very dry. “Except, they’d still not hitch the ride out. So that’s comforting, I guess.”

Benny’s eyes snap up to meet his. “What do you mean?”

The softness all gone from his voice, he takes half a step back, still not letting go of Dean’s hand.

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “The portal only spits out humans, remember? Possessed, my meatsuit would no longer be—”

“Human,” Benny finishes for him. “Of course.”

Dean’s palm grows cold without the touch.

He watches Benny’s movements as he gathers his jacket from Dean’s impromptu bed, switches the blade for his own weapon.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, that’s good. The price on your head just dropped,” Benny says, his voice weirdly loud in the surrounding silence. “I know where we can get more of the mineral for the proofing. Be right back.”

With the jacket thrown over his shoulder and the weapon ready to slice and dice, Benny walks out.

Left alone in the cave, Dean presses his still aching head to the cool rock behind him. He closes his eyes. He knows what he has to do.

  


The blood begins to soak through the handkerchief, but it should stop soon enough. Dean pulls down the sleeve of his shirt and puts the jacket on too. He wipes the dirt off his hands into the back of his jeans.

Back in the alcove, he sits. He waits.

It doesn’t take long for the sounds of the footsteps to appear just outside the cave. Next comes Benny’s figure, dark against the dying light behind him. In his hand hangs his bulging jacket with a load inside it.

He calls out to Dean, just to let him know it’s only him and not an enemy, that he doesn’t have to attack.

His boot crosses the threshold, Dean holds his breath.

Another step and there’s still a chance Dean was so fucking wrong. A chance that he can pretend nothing happened or tell it as a good joke for them both to have a laugh. A chance that he can sleep off his headache by Benny’s side, protected and safe.

Another step. And a half. And Benny’s body stops abruptly as it hits an invisible wall.

“What?” Dean can’t see Benny’s shaded face, but he can feel his confusion. He can feel the rage that comes after. “What the fuck did you do!?”

Dean swears under his breath. He should have known sooner. It was too easy. Benny just waiting there to save him. Benny taking him in like nothing ever happened. Dean did go too soft, after all.

“Told you we gotta demon-proof, asshole,” Dean barks, waving at the dirt beneath the demon’s feet.

One drag of the sole of his boot unearths the bloody streaks, just a part of a pattern.

“What?” In frantic kicks, the demon sweeps more of the dirt away, revealing the joined lines of the pentagram and the symbols surrounding it. He clears the whole parameter of his new prison. “What the hell is this? What is this thing?”

Dean doesn’t miss the panic in his voice, the confusion.

“You a baby demon or something?”

“I have lived for centuries!” Benny’s face twists up in a near-grotesque display of anger. Dean’s find it funny if it wasn’t _Benny’s_ face. “I’ve endured more than you can imagine!”

As is, Dean can only roll his eyes at the tantrum and the tirade.

“So a baby demon,” he repeats, if only to rile him up further. “Don’t they teach this stuff anymore?”

“I spent decades fighting and crawling my way out of Hell,” he goes on, coming as near Dean as the trap will let him. “I was so, so close to finally getting out of there. But then bam! A fucking demon tornado bursts in and all doors are closed. For good, they say.”

A part of Dean feels bad for the tortured son of a bitch. The other part still only sees the scum using his best friend. “Cry me a river.”

All it earns Dean is a furious roar and a cascade of haematites bruising his shoulder. If they’re even that and not any reddish stone he picked with bare hands along the way.

“Hey!”

There’s still Benny’s weapon in his hand, that might hurt a little more than a bunch of stones. Dean watches carefully his movements, a strange uneasiness of them. Was it there before, did he chose to ignore it all along?

“Funny thing,” the demon says, for good dropping the accent, dropping the wrath too, if just for a moment, “I grab myself this vampire and find out that his beloved’s little bro had something to do with it.” He pauses, looking for validation on Dean’s face, but he gives him nothing. “But that’s okay, ‘cause he also left the back door wide open.”

This time Dean can’t control it, can’t stop his jaw from dropping.

“What? He didn’t tell you he’d forgotten to put the big ole rock back in?” the demon sneers. “Uh-oh! Someone fucked up big time!”

Dean grits his teeth. That doesn’t matter now. Right now the only thing that matters is getting Benny out unscathed.

“So what? You’re still not getting to Earth. Hell, Purgatory — for all I care, you and your friends can stay here forever.”

“Nah,” the demon calls him out on his bluff. He points a finger to his head. “See, I spent here some time, I learned a thing or two about you. To answer your question, I have met you. And I know your hero complex won’t let you just leave this be.”

Dean keeps looking at him with a blank expression and lets him continue.*

“So, now that that’s settled, I wanna offer you a dl—”

“Up yours.”

“A deal—” the demon ignores him. “We get to the portal, you ride me out. You never hear of me again. What’s one baby demon in the world gonna hurt?”

“Or I could just leave you here to rot.”

The demon hisses. “You won’t leave Benny here. You came all this way for him!”

“I never said that,” Dean says with a smug smile. He’s let this go on for way too long. “Exorcizamus te! Omnis immundus spiritus…”

The demon greets the words with a smirk on his face, but the smirk fades as the words of the exorcism keep coming. As Dean nears its ending, with a scream, Benny’s head pops back and a cloud of black smoke begins to pour out of his mouth.

But there’s something wrong. Dean conducted enough exorcisms to know how it goes. The smoke’s supposed to get sucked away to Hell. Instead, this smoke only clouds around Benny’s head, his whole body, filling up the space its contained in.

And before Dean reaches the shouted _audi nos!_ the demon’s soaking back into Benny, ‘til no smoke’s left at all, only black eyes and a victorious grin.

“What the—” Dean gasps, stepping back.

“Surprised?” The demon mocks. “I’m but a baby demon, but one thing I learned. You can’t send me to Hell, _chéri_. This is Hell, now!”

 

 

“So, where were we? Ah, right, the deal.”

“There’s no deal.”

“Don’t be dramatic. It doesn’t cost you anything.” The demon puts his open palm over his heart. “I solemnly swear to become a productive member of human society. What’s it gonna be, brother?”

Dean rushes at him, blade pointed straight at his face. Still, he minds the line that keeps him safe. “It’s gonna be go fuck yourself!”

The demon gives out a long-suffering sigh.

“Okay, okay, whatever you say.” He begins to pace the perimeter of his prison. Then he stops. “I’ve one, last question, though. How did it go…? If you kill a monster in monster heaven—” staring Dean dead in the eyes, he lifts the weapon to Benny’s throat—”where does it go?”

Every muscle in Dean’s body tenses, ready to jump, to rip the weapon out of his hand, to save Benny. A lifetime of handling crisis situation holds his reflexes in check.

“You won’t do it.”

“What do I have to lose? I either rot in Purgatory or I rot in Hell. Maybe at least I’ll manage to find myself a host with less drama going on in his head. If you only saw it all. All this—heartbreak. You weren’t a great friend, were you, Dean? Picked your brother over Benny. Again and again. I don’t know why he _loves_ you so much.”

It’s a provocation Dean’s not gonna fall for, no matter how true the words, how painful the truth. None of that matters now. And if he doesn’t save Benny, it won’t matter at all.

“Frankly,” the demon goes on, ”if we did it my way, I’d be doing you a favor. Because Benny? He doesn’t want to go topside with you.” He takes a step back to grant himself a space to take the swing. He’s ready to self-decapitate, to take away the last person Dean’s got left. To take away Benny. “Can’t blame him.”

He twists his body to gain more velocity. Once the trigger’s off, Benny’s head will fall, once again, to Dean’s feet.

“Alright! Stop! Stop!” Dean shouts, praying it’s not too late. “I’ll do it!”

“Knew you’re a smart cookie.” The demon grins, lingering with his arm raised up, until, at last, he drops it to his side. “Now, break the circle.”

“Put the weapon down,” Dean orders but is met with hesitation. “I need to get closer.”

The demon does as he’s told. He holds down the weapon with his boot, just in case. But that’s fine, Dean doesn’t need his weapon. The angel blade should do just fine scraping the blood off, scraping the porous rock too, to properly break the trap. He approaches, the weapon firm in his hand.

He begins to lean down.

He thrusts up.

The blade sinks into the demon’s shoulder.

Benny’s shoulder.

A piercing scream leaves the demon’s throat. Dean doesn’t let go. He pushes further, putting all his weight into it, ‘til the blade is through, ‘til the demon’s got his back against the invisible wall.

“Get! Out!”

The demon mumbles a curse, still putting up resistance. But he’s hurting.

Dean’s gotta make it hurt more.

“I’m so sorry, Benny,” he whispers.

He twists the blade. Draws another high-pitched shriek.

“I said get out of him!”

“You won’t…kill him…” The words hardly make their way out of the demon’s mouth.

“Oh, I won’t kill him. You think you’ve been tortured? You ain’t seen nothing yet. I can cut you and flake you and burn you in the ways you can’t imagine and keep you both alive for a long time. Wanna test me?”

“I’ll leave! Just let me go! I’ll leave!”

As soon as Dean yanks out the blade, the demon slides to the ground, pressing his wound. He doesn’t seem fit for further fight, still Dean kicks his weapon away and springs out of his reach. For a moment, the only sounds are the demon’s mewling and the scraping of the metal against the rock.

The demon doesn’t wait for formal eviction. He bursts out of Benny’s body as soon as his prison’s gone.

Benny drops to the floor, but Dean’s there right away, by his side, scooping him into his arms.

“Benny? Benny, come on.”

A pained groan answers him. He left out a relieved breath. He’s here. Benny’s here.

“Easy, buddy,” Dean coos. You’re okay. You’ll be okay, he’s gone.”

Benny turns his head to find Dean’s face. His eyes are hazy, but blue, as they glance into Dean’s. He mouths his words but they come out too quiet.

Dean leans in, his ear near Benny’s lips. Close enough to hear.

“Screw you, Dean.”

Dean huffs a soundless laugh. “Yeah, I’m happy to see you too, buddy.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

The gaping wound in Benny’s shoulder is nearly see-through, but no blood oozes from it. That’s good news. No blood means nothing to run out of.

Still, Dean presses the rags to both ends of the hole and wraps it as expertly as the available resources let him.

“You know I’m dead, right?” Benny reminds him.

As if Dean could forget.

Even as he sees him, talks to him, presses his hands against the solidity of him, he still can’t shake the weight of Benny’s lifeless body in his arms.

Even as Benny’s fingers catch his. “Give it a couple hours, there won’t be a mark.”

“Yeah, well” Dean mutters, his free hand smoothening his work to make the rags sit well under the shirt. “Until then, I’m still taking proper care of it.”

Benny shakes his head. “Don’t do this, brother.”

Dean doesn’t answer. Doesn’t ask what Benny means because they both know that damn well.

“I could take a hundred more blows as long as it got rid of that nasty thing.”

_ You shouldn’t have been here in the first place, _ Dean wants to say. But doesn’t. There’s no getting into that, not right now. Not today. He just got Benny back.

And there are more pressing things they need to discuss.

“How is it even possible? For it to possess you? You’re not corporeal.”

Dean sees the irony of it, with Benny’s thigh pressing against him as they sit side by side in the yellow firelight. But Benny’s still dead, he’s still just a soul.

“Hell if I know. They’re all out there drooling at the thought of your body, a real body. But my guess is that here we’re tangible enough. Not so comfortable — but your pal, Cas will have a whole new metaphysical conundrum to chew on.”

It’s a punch in the stomach Dean needs a moment to recover from.

“Yeah, he—”  _ would _ —”will.”

He doesn’t wanna talk about this either.

Benny opens his mouth, but Dean beats him to it.

“Was he telling the truth?”

“About Sam? Probably.” Benny doesn’t look at Dean when he says it. It’s not what Dean was asking. “They started coming through that hole right after I came back, so that checks out. I figured he forgot to say  _ close, Sesame _ . Turned out he ain’t even shut the damned door behind him.”

Dean closes his eyes, mouths a curse. A loose end coming back to haunt him is one thing. Shit hitting the fan because Sam was careless is something else entirely.

“Alright, so we go there,” Dean says, as if that alone is a walk in the park, not jumping headfirst into a nigh literal pandemonium, “pop the rock back in its place and—”

“You think no one tried?” Benny chimes in. “Time after time. It doesn’t hold. Whether they fell out of their hinges or demons did something by now— Eventually, we ran out of force.”

Another curse. “So all the monsters out there…?”

“Possessed. Or most of them, at least. S’why the demon knocked you out.” 

“Awesome,” Dean blurts out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A land of demonsters is exactly what I needed.”

Purgatory’s force looked quite mighty when it was inside Castiel. If the whole neighborhood of them got their assess—literally—owned, Dean and Benny are gonna need something more than the two of them and their brawn.

Sure, the reapers could really come in handy. But they won’t. Because they won’t know.

Because Dean and Benny? They’re not coming topside, are they?

“You know I wasn’t asking about Sam.”

“I know,” Benny says plainly. But then his eyes are on Dean, solemn. “This is where I belong, Dean. Here, there’s no hunger. There’s no worry I’ll end up starved and lose control and murder someone innocent. It’s violence, but, like you said, it’s pure.”

Dean nods. He gets it because he knows that hunger. It was only hours for him but it hurt and it took every last bit of energy and self-constrained he had.

And still he nearly failed.

“Out there?” Benny goes on and Dean already knows what he’s gonna say. And he knows why he’s gonna say it. “Out there I’m no good.”

And Dean’s not gonna argue about it, not now.

“Okay then.” He claps his hands, instead. “Screw the reapers’ help. What do you say we shut the door for good and fix this place.”

“Got any duct tape?”

Dean chuckles. “I think we’re gonna need something stronger than that.”

“Any ideas, chief?”

Dean bites his lip. He really should have packed better for the trip. Had he known he’d get stuck in Hell, he’d at least have taken the instruction. But then, that’s not all lost either.

“I might have something,” he says, glancing at the glint of orange fire in the silver blade. “I gotta make a phone call.”

 

The cut on his forearm has only begun to heal and yet Dean’s already slicing his skin open again. He clenches his teeth at the tang of pain.

“You really need to stop doing that,” Benny notices.

Dean shoots him a withering look. “Wanna volunteer some, be my guest!”

But of course, vampire’s blood wouldn’t work, even if Benny had any. Human blood, that’s the point. That’s the reason Dean’s skin crawls as he fills the bowl he carved out of stone. But as long as he doesn’t have to bleed any school girls for it, it’s the best idea he’s got.

Mainly because it’s the only idea he’s got.

He holds the bowl in both his hands, focuses his intent on the person he’s calling.

“Te invoco, Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth!” he says, feeling quite stupid. Benny’s raised eyebrow isn’t helping.

But it works: the blood begins to boil and bubble. Dean takes that as a sign to begin.

“Hey Garth, don’t freak out, it’s me Dean,” he rolls out in one breath.

“Dean?” comes from the bowl. The high pitch of Garth’s voice betrays his surprise. Dean can practically see him spinning in place trying to find him. “Where are you?”

“Purgatory.”

“Again?” A giggle. “Dean, you party anim—”

“Did you get the letter?” Dean cuts him off. “With the key?”

“Yeah, I got it. Risky move but we can now assume USPS isn’t corrupted so, good job.”

“Great.” Good news at last. “I’m gonna need you to hitch a ride to Lebanon,” Dean says, then thinks better of it. “The one in Kansas,” he clarifies. “Not Asia.”

“Getting to Asia could take a while. As for Kansas, I’m a few hours out. What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to find a—a spell or a ritual. Start with my laptop, folder: Word of God.”

“Uh, okay. Something specific?”

“Yeah. A hellectomy.”

 

There’s a shift in the weight pressing against Dean’s back. A low moan follows and the pressure is gone, and so is the heat.

“Mornin’ sleepyhead,” he greets Benny as gets up to stretch his back like a grumpy kitten. “Made you something.”

He’s been at it for a while now, carving and filing with his swiss army knife, as Benny slumbered. He only gives it a final touch of the world’s ugliest ribbon slipped through the hole on top of it, ties it before tossing it into Benny’s open palm.

Benny examines the wooden disc, two inches diameter just big enough to get the details right. The symbol Benny recognizes right away, the pentagram in the center and the ring of flames surrounding it.

“This supposed to protect me the way your tattoo does?”

“Sure,” Dean says quickly, pouts, then adds, “Ninety-five percent. Sorry, I don’t got my tattoo gun on me.”

“Gonna have to trust you on that.” Benny pulls the ribbon over his head and tucks the amulet beneath his shirt.

While Dean did a great on getting all the elements just right, he’d prefer if they didn’t have to test it. He’s used amulets like this, though never wooden and never handmade. The chances for that are slim though, now that Benny’s clean, some other demon-slug will try to make himself at home inside him. Especially where they’re going.

“Alright, spill,” Benny says, finding a comfy spot on the opposite of him. “What is it, brother?”

“With what?” he asks.

But he knows. And he knows it’s unfair to play dumb right now. Still, he waits for Benny to clarify.

“Why are you here? All that talk about retirement?”

“Oh, you remember that.”

Benny only shoots him a look. An  _ I remember everything _ kind of look.

Dean shrugs, deflecting, as is he does. “You know me, gardening’s not my style.”

Benny narrows his eyes and his stare only gets more intense. It makes Dean too seen for his liking. He hangs his head low, drops eyes to where their knees nearly touch.

His voice seems so small when he says, “They’re gone.”

“They?” Benny echoes. “Your brother? Cas?”

Dean nods.

“What happened?”

Dean lets out a brief, bitter laugh. “Victory happened.”

Benny doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t prod. But he reaches forward, puts a comforting hand on Dean’s knee and waits patiently for him to go on.

And so Dean does, in not so many words.

“Sam closed Hell and died for it. Cas locked the Pearly Gates with himself inside, and I—”  _ was left all alone _ —”I’m here.”

He bites his tongue in time. But what he doesn’t say still weighs on him. It was easier to look Benny in the eye not thinking about it. About how he’d never come here if he never got lonely. As lonely as Benny must have been all this time on his own when Dean ignored him. Because there was always something, something more important, like the stupid chase that got his brother killed, or like his brother Dean couldn’t stand up to, not hard enough.

And then Benny chose death and that was that.

Now there Dean is, the selfish asshole extraordinaire, suddenly remembering his friend and running into his arms. Because he’s got nothing left. Because he felt lonely. Like Benny is some sort of consolation prize, a second choice.

“You got left behind,” Benny says and Dean should have known he won’t avoid that.

”Listen, Benny, I—”

“Dean? Hallo?”

It’s not Benny’s voice this time. Dean’s head darts up, he looks around, expecting a demon somehow trespassing despite the fixed trap. But there’s no one there. And the confusion on Benny’s face makes him realize he’s the only one who hears the voice. And he knows the voice too.

“Garth?” Dean says out loud, not really sure whether to speak to the open air. Fresh blood’s not a very durable communication device. “Wow, this is uncomfortable. What do you got?”

“How high was your friend when he made those notes?” Garth asks.

“On caffeine and sleep deprivation? Very. So you found something?”

“Yeah, I think I did. Kevin calls it a band-aid. Once it’s done, only a pure being will be able to reopen the door.”

“Fantastic, exactly what we need.”

“It’s in Enochian so you might wanna grab something to write.”

Dean shoots Benny a look.

“How good are you with languages?”

 

~*~

 

The rustle of the river obscures the sound of their footsteps as they tread on the edge of the forest. The trees here are thin enough to let them spot any incoming danger from afar, but there hasn’t been any since they left the beaten path.

But it’s not gonna be this way for much longer.

“You sure it ain’t too far?” Benny whispers, glancing back to where the clearing disappeared a while ago.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean assures him, but none of his words seem to be enough.

“I still don’t like this plan.”

Dean sighs. “Got any better idea?”

He already knows where this is going. Still, he indulges him.

“Yeah, I’ll be the bait.”

“We’ve talked about this, Benny.” It’s been decided long before Benny began to play the gossip guy and spreading the word of the best chunk of meat in the land, with benefits. “ _ I’m _ the golden ticket. Or so they think. It’s gotta be me.”

“I know.” Benny capitulates. “Just don’t want you to get hurt or worse.”

“Dying while saving the world is the Winchester way, I guess.” Dean shrugs to play it down.

He doesn’t wanna die, not now when he’s got something to live for, again. He doesn’t want to get possessed even more than that and wait for Garth to call on reapers to put him out of his misery. The reapers here only sounded like a good idea in the version where him and Benny are out of here. But it’s still good to have a contingency plan.

“Not very worth saving, then,” Benny mutters under his breath. Quiet enough for Dean to pretend he didn’t hear a word.

They walk until they hit the fork in their road. From ways ahead the uproar reaches their ears. It’s time to split. Hopefully, only for a while.

“As long as you don’t forget a word, we’re good.” He pats Benny on the shoulder for encouragement. “No pressure.”

“Be careful,” Benny says, before going on his own way.

Dean waits out a few minutes before hitting the road again. It doesn’t take long until he sees the source of the ruckus; a whole swarm of demons surrounding the black gaping hole leading to Hell.

They don’t expect him, how could they? Dean Winchester isn’t so dumb to crash a demon party all on his own. But there he is.

“Hey! Assholes!” he roars, loud for them all to hear.

He needs their undivided attention and he needs to grab it all at once, act quick before their brains make the switch from selfish to smart. Because he know they all know he’s only a bait. But as long as every last one of them wants him, his heavy bones and working muscles and his ticket out of here, he’s an offer they cannot refuse.

He only needs to un-seal the deal.

“Heard you were looking for some of my sweet ass!”

He pulls down the neck of his shirt, except this time not for presentation only. Swiss army knife in hand, he pulls out the sharp, little blade and presses it to his skin. He presses until it hurts and the trail of blood drips down his chest. He drags the knife down, all the way through the ink, destroying the one thing that’s protected him infallibly for years.

Once that’s done, he wipes the blade into his pants and pockets it.

“Come and get me!”

 

Dean’s had this dream before. He’s running through the woods, chased by hellhounds, by monsters, by demons. Except in those dreams, those nightmares, he stumbles and falls and they catch him. They tear him into ribbons, every single time.

But not this time, they can’t, because it’s not a nightmare. This is real and this is his only chance to fix things, and the creatures behind him aren’t even that fast and soon they won’t even be that scary when he gets to the opening and its plowed ground.

He runs ‘til his muscles ache and his legs seem to work on their own apart from his brain, but he still gets to steer between the trees and over the roots poking out from the ground. Behind him the turmoil of the dozens of boots stomping the ground and the rabid shrieks add wings to his feet, and maybe Benny was right, maybe it is too far, but the only thing he can think of is that he leads them all, every single one of the demons, as far away as he can.

Then, at last, just as he’s about to give up and fall and drown in the swarm of demons, the trees end and he breaks into the clearing, the leaves of grass there broken in a familiar pattern only his eyes can see, ‘cause they’ve seen it before; as his hand carved it.

And then he runs some more, only slower, slow enough for the gasps of the horde to raise the hair on the back of his neck. He runs past the edge and cuts across the circle and before even he’s past the line of the ring, he lets go. A hand grabs him by the back of his jacket and he hangs there for a fraction of a second before his velocity yanks him forward and the demon with full force smashes into a wall it can’t see.

A collision of demons crash into him and a chorus of pained cries resound, drowned out by Dean’s own gasping and wheezing as his lungs fight for any air they can get. It’s a beautiful and satisfying disaster that Dean watches from the cool ground through the blur of his sweat and tears in his eyes.

As the shock subsides, the wrath arises, and the joined cacophony of curses and ungodly screams and spitting out Dean’s name rivals the choir of the damned in Hell’s Sunday school.

“Shush,” Dean commands, hardly getting his own voice out. He presses his index finger to his mouth for a good measure, but that goes unnoticed as well. “Imma give y— five min’ts. Fuck.”

The only thing stopping him from blacking out is a threat of strays going ‘round the block and stumbling upon his meatsuit. He’s gotta be more watchful now or a mouthful sulphuric fist  in his mouth can end up being the least of his worries.

Or a mouthful of sulfuric first can end up being the least of his worries.

He waits, as promised, slowly working on his breath to return it to normal. He’s gonna need his lungs rested and pumping the air loud and clear. At last, as he stands up, it has to be enough waiting.

“Alright then, everyone, say goodbye!” he says but inside him everything’s in anxious knots. This better fucking work. “Exorcizamus te!” he shouts. At his sides he’s got his fingers crossed for luck. “Omnis immundus spiritus!”

It begins as it should, the black smoke comes out of the mouths of poor sons of bitches and swarms above their heads like an angry storm cloud. But the demons don’t return to their meatsuits this time. As whiffed in by a giant vacuum cleaner, the get sucked away back to Hell, every last one of them.

It worked.

It fucking worked.

The demons are gone.

And there is only a pack of confused monsters standing before Dean.

 

There’s a body discarded on Dean’s path, a monster with a hole pierced into his throat. There’s another lying further down. Dean can’t help taking a careful look at each of them, but their faces are foreign. Still, his stomach turns. He doesn’t like what it means an what might find at the end. But the exorcism worked, so did the spell. So Benny had to get that far, at least — he’s a fighter after all.

Dean picks up his pace as the three trees entwined come into view. There’s no black hole, anymore, where they meet. Only the familiar gray of a rock, like a puzzle piece snapped into its rightful place.

But there’s another piece missing.

“Benny?”

For a moment, Dean’s heart sinks, as he sweeps over the fallen, scattered across the battlefield. But then, something shifts in the periphery of his vision.

“A little help, chief?” a voice calls, the familiar drawl, if weaker than it should be.

Dean rushes to Benny’s side to help him stand. He looks miserable, all wounds and lacerations, but he’s walking and talking, so that means he’s fine.

“They didn’t like it,” he explains before Dean even asks, though he’s not sure if he means the closing of the doorway or the carved amulet Benny’s fingers hold onto. “But we got them?”

“We did.”

Benny smiles. “Victory, huh, brother?”

And he drops heavy in Dean’s arms. Dean still holds him tight and doesn’t let him fall. He lowers him, slowly, down among the roots of the trees — of Hell’s back door — body resting against a trunk. He can’t shake the worry, as he watches him breathe heavily, eyes barely staying open.

“It’s okay, buddy, you did good. You can rest now,” Dean coos, squeezing Benny’s palm gently. He shouldn’t have let him face all those demons alone. He should have told him to wait until he’s back. They should have done this together. “You’re gonna be okay. Right?”

Were Benny topside, alive, in his vampire body, ruined like this, Dean’d know what to do. He’d give him blood to drink, any blood, it’d heal all his wounds, make him good as new. Like it did on that night in the docks; it was almost as bad as it is now.

Benny pulled through then.

But Dean doesn’t know the laws of Purgatory as well as he should. Decapitation kills. Flesh wounds don’t leave a mark. But the things in between? The deep cuts and blows that should leave him gutted? How deep can the injury go before—

“Right?” he repeats into the top of Benny’s head as it falls on his shoulder.

Dean lets out a shaky breath.

His thumb rubs circles into Benny’s palm. From his other hand, he pulls out the angel blade Benny fought so fiercely with. There’s nothing now that he can do but to keep them safe.

And wait.

 

~*~

 

The orange tongues of fire lick the bark, shyly, at first, then catch on and begin to devour the thick branch. The fire grows, taking over every piece of wood put in its path and burns out each with joyful crackling. In return, it gives out heat that can’t seem to warm Dean at all.

It gives out the light that drowns out the darkness of the purgatory night. It makes for a beacon, too, though that part Dean couldn’t care less about. The demons won’t make it past the thick, red border of the camp. The monsters, armed in Latin, have other concerns.

“Shoulda brought marshmallows for that,” comes from behind. Uneven steps follow.

Dean springs up right away, to serve as support. Benny’s still too weak to walk. “You should be resting.”

“It’s nicer here.”

They sit back down, by the fire casting light and shadows on their faces. Dean keeps Benny right beside him, so close their shoulders press against each other.

It’s been long two days and nights of Dean fighting and warding and sitting by Benny’s side, watching his chest go up and down. There were moments when he was sure Benny was a goner and for good this time.

But at last, the wounds — bit by bit — began to close. And this morning Benny’s eyes fluttered open, bleary and tired.

“Don’t ever do this to me again,” Dean says barely over the cracking of the wood. He’s trying not to sound like a grumpy little kid. “I already lost you once.”

“That was unfair to you.”

Dean’s eyes dart up, shooting Benny a questioning look. It wasn’t his fault he almost died because of Dean’s poorly thought-out plan.

“Making you think I’d come back though I never planned to,” Benny explains. “Especially after Cas—” he trails off.

“Oh. I was starting to get used to it.” Dean’s trying to deflect, but can’t hide the bitterness. “I should have seen it coming. I’m the one who fucked up after all.”

“Dean you didn’t—”

“I did. I wasn’t there for you.”

“Come on, Dean. I was not your responsibility. The deal was you get me out, then we split.”

“So what? You are my friend and you needed me. But I kept picking everything else over you,” he admits.

In a way, it’s good to finally say out loud after beating himself over it all this time. But it’s also ugly, hanging there in the air between them, threatening to smash everything they’ve built into pieces and—

“And there I was thinking you were saving the world.”

It’s a slush of ice cold water in the morning, when he can’t free his mind from the grip of a nightmare. He sucks in the air but can’t find the words to counter it. Not right away. Not soon enough.

Benny puts his hand on Dean’s thigh for comfort. “And you’re here now.”

And he’s here now. Benny says it like there was never any hidden agenda behind it; the loneliness that pushed Dean to come. Ever since he killed him, Benny was just another hole inside him he couldn’t spare a conscious thought. Not until every other thought became too painful or too idle.

He’s been too much of a coward to admit it. But if he doesn’t do it now, it’s just gonna keep weighing on him. So he lets out a humorless laugh.

“‘Cause I’ve no one else left.” He really hates the way it sounds.

But Benny smiles softly, with a smile that’s more eyes than lips.

“There are a lot of nicer ways to cure loneliness than a trip to a monsterland.”

Dean breathes in slowly. Maybe Benny’s right. And maybe there’s no need to say anything else. So Dean doesn’t. He just nods. Smiles back.

“So,” Benny starts, shifting in his spot. He’s putting his weight against Dean and Dean’s right there to hold him. “Tell me about that new home of yours. Got any spare bedrooms?”

“Oh yeah, lots to pick and choose from,” Dean replies near automatic and it takes him a moment to process. “Does this mean—?”

Benny gives out a soft, little hum.

“Well, we’ve still work to do here,” he draws the words out. “But after that…” he trails off, but for Dean that’s enough.

Whether they’re here or topside, as long as Benny’s by his side, it’s as great a happy ending as Dean needs.


End file.
